


Oh, We Like Sheep! And Other Misperceptions

by Ineffabilitea



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Community: go_exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-08
Updated: 2009-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ineffabilitea/pseuds/Ineffabilitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sooner Aziraphale asked, the sooner Crowley could say no, but instead the angel continued to behave as though he had nothing in particular to say to Crowley at all, beyond the pleasantries and inanities of the day, and it was getting well on its way to December.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, We Like Sheep! And Other Misperceptions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for colon_bracket in the 2008 go_exchange. Thanks to such_heights for the beta.

Despite the fact that it is a principle rarely included in modern guides to living a happy, healthy and fulfilling existence, most people would agree that you should at all costs stay out of the way of a frustrated and resentful demon. It is, in point of fact, such a strong principle that even when not consciously aware that there is such a demon in the vicinity (or that demons exist, period), most humans will avoid him anyway.

Which is probably why, as a certain black Bentley turned the corner onto Wardour Street at a precipitous rate of speed, its driver found the neighbourhood uncharacteristically empty of pedestrians. This did nothing but increase his frustration (though the effect on his resentment was minimal).

"Insufferable angel," Crowley muttered, somewhat unreasonably holding Aziraphale and his efforts to repel customers from his shop entirely responsible for the current desolation of Soho. He'd really felt like maiming, or at least frightening, some hapless bystanders. Instead, he braked with entirely necessary force in order to stop precisely in front of the bookshop. He didn't know why he was even bothering to stop in, especially without any pretext.

Not that Aziraphale seemed to expect him to have a pretext, ever since they'd (sort of) helped avert the apocalypse. But Crowley made sure to have one anyway, at least most days, because like all demons he was naturally and reasonably paranoid, and excuses went a long way toward counteracting paranoia.

But not that long a way, it seemed, because Crowley's paranoia (not to mention, again, the frustration and resentment) had been growing for weeks, fed by the angel's maddening refusal to do what he was expected to do and just ask his question. The sooner Aziraphale asked, the sooner Crowley could say no, but instead the angel continued to behave as though he had nothing in particular to say to Crowley at all, beyond the pleasantries and inanities of the day, and it was getting well on its way to December.

Crowley had been trying his damnedest (which was pretty damned damned) to ignore all the little things – like the pretexts – that had changed in the wake of the not-so-apocalypse, but that didn't mean he hadn't noticed that things had changed, specifically things that had to do with himself and a certain angel and the time they spent together. But this tradition – it shouldn't have been affected by any of those changes, it wasn't anything like that, and so he couldn't imagine what Aziraphale was playing at. Why didn't he just invite Crowley to the blessed _Messiah_ concert, so Crowley could turn him down for the obvious reasons, and they could get on with their lives, as it were.

It wasn't like it was even that important, Crowley thought as he approached the bookshop door, studiously ignoring all the evidence that suggested he found it exactly that important, since he'd stopped by the bookshop every day that week to give the angel an opportunity to ask. Just like he knew the question, Aziraphale certainly knew the answer, so it wouldn't even take a minute – why put it off?

And then he opened the door to the shop, and the furious opening strains of "Why Do The Nations" assaulted his ears, carried over the speakers which were one of the few signs of post-eighteenth century technology in evidence. Crowley smiled. This was more like it. Hopefully the angel would hear Handel, see Crowley, and get with the programme.

Despite the orotund bass tones now filing the air, Aziraphale must've heard the door, because he poked his head out from the back room almost immediately. "I'm afraid we're – oh." He blinked, looking even more awkward than was typical, and suddenly the music stopped. "Crowley. I wasn't expecting you."

Crowley's nascent good mood evaporated as quickly as the aria had. "Is that so?" he asked, glaring.

"Yes, I – well, in any case, what brings you by?"

"I –" Bless it all, he'd used 'just happened to be in the neighbourhood' yesterday. "The Bentley needed a drive," he finished lamely.

"Oh," Aziraphale said. They stood in awkward silence, eyeing each other, for about half a minute. Then Crowley remembered that he was angry with the angel, and should not be pathetically hanging round waiting for him to ask a question he clearly had no intention of asking.

"So, I drove here," he started, as though there'd been no pause in the conversation, "and now I think I'll drive back. Good evening, angel."

"Dinner tomorrow?" Aziraphale called after him as he made his way to the door.

Crowley stopped with his hand on the shop door. "Why not?" he answered after the minutest of pauses, cursing whatever it was that made him give in to Aziraphale so easily lately. "I'll pick you up at the usual time. You know, since we have a routine," he continued, giving the angel a pointed look. "A _tradition_, as it were. A dinner tradition. Just like _some people_ have, say, holiday traditions."

"Um, yes." Aziraphale looked even more befuddled than usual. "Yes, the usual time. That will do nicely. I'll see you then." He turned and retreated to the back room of the shop.

"Insufferable angel," Crowley repeated once he was back behind the wheel of the Bentley. His bad mood only increased when he caught himself humming the Handel aria under his breath. "'Why do the people imagine a vain thing,' indeed," he remarked to no one in particular. It was going to be a long December.

~*~

By the time he picked Aziraphale up for dinner the next day, Crowley had made time to terrorize his plants and arrange a sex scandal for one of the nation's more prominent politicians, so he was feeling almost mellow. He and the angel drove to the restaurant – a charming, if minuscule, _brasserie_ – in silence that finally seemed to verge on companionable.

The hope that things might be back to the comfortable old routine of dinner with Aziraphale didn't last very long once they had been shown to their table. Crowley didn't really bother to glance at the menu, knowing that they would have steak _au poivre_ and _pommes frites_, and if the steak that would arrive at their table would be a superior cut to what the chef would usually serve, and so rare you could still hear it mooing, no one need be the wiser.

Aziraphale, though, who could be depended upon to order the duck confit in every restaurant they frequented, occasionally including the Indian take-out counter up the street, was perusing the menu ostentatiously, making the occasional 'hm' sound as he pored over the single page of choices with a focus he usually reserved for incunabula.

Crowley did not resist the temptation to interrogate the angel over his strange behaviour for very long. "What's the problem?"

Aziraphale looked up from his menu and smiled. "Oh, no problem, unless being spoiled for choice is a problem, my dear."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Since when do you want to be spoiled for choice? Do they not serve duck confit here?"

"Of course they do, Crowley, but tonight the _coq au vin_ sounds more intriguing. I think I'll have that." He set down his menu carefully.

"But you like duck confit!" Crowley protested, as before uncertain why it mattered so much.

"But what if I like _coq_, too?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley stuttered, momentarily speechless. "But—but—what's wrong with the duck?" he countered accusatorily.

Aziraphale smiled again and, strangely enough, reached out to pat Crowley's hand where it lay on the table. Crowley fought the urge to hiss. "There's nothing wrong with the duck, my dear," Aziraphale said. "But sometimes, one tries something new, not because the usual choice is in any way inadequate, but because one suspects that the new thing will be even better."

As if those words weren't cryptically generalized enough, he then fixed Crowley with a look so intense, the demon was uncomfortably reminded of several awkward moments in Judea, two millennia or so ago. Yes, tonight it was definitely the angel who was strange, not Crowley.

"I think you're placing irrationally high expectations on your poultry dishes," Crowley muttered, hoping that would be enough to change the subject.

"Perhaps," Aziraphale replied, "but I know you would never bring me someplace where the food wasn't excellent." And that was innocuous enough, but he still had that peculiarly intense look, and Crowley realized he had no idea whether they'd changed the subject or not.

~*~

Though Crowley still hadn't deciphered what precisely they'd been talking about that dinner, afterwards time spent with Aziraphale seemed more like old times, pre-Apocal-oops-change-of-plans. He even got comfortable enough that the next Saturday, when he knew the angel would be trying to decorate the shop for the holidays, he decided to swing round and ostentatiously not help, just as he did every year, even though they were apparently honouring such things this year more in the breach than in the observance.

Yes, just like every year, Crowley thought, as Aziraphale greeted him with every evidence of good cheer and poured him some of the mulled cider that was providing much of said cheer. Same cider recipe, same horrific (and horrifically dusty) Fifties holiday decorations piled on a table, waiting to be strewn seemingly at random about the shop. Same angel, pointlessly debating (with himself, aloud) whether to dust before putting up the decorations, or after. (Clearly, both would be most sensible, but Aziraphale usually settled on neither, while the dust settled on, well, everything.) Crowley himself was certainly the same, leaning in a vaguely scandalous way against the counter and glowering at the decorations whenever he recalled, between quaffs of cider, that a demon probably should.

Nothing had changed. Of course, the metaphysical underpinnings of this, and possibly other, planes of existence had undergone an ineffable shift at the whim of an eleven-year-old boy since the last time they'd done this, but it was reassuring to know that he and Aziraphale hadn't changed. Apart from the Handel thing.

What else was reassuring? More cider.

Duly reassured, Crowley proceeded with his usual variety of snide remarks about the angel's taste in decorations and the current secular commercialization of the holiday and how much of it could be laid at Crowley's door. As happened every year, a good portion of the entertainment value of 'helping' Aziraphale decorate was provided by their duelling musical choices. If the angel tuned the shop's radio to a station playing 'Good King Wenceslas', Crowley would find one (somewhere) playing 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer' and switch to that. 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', and he'd track down some particularly insipid Trans Siberian Orchestra, while 'O Come All Ye Faithful' just led to puerile jokes and a not-actually-very-scandalized angel.

But then Aziraphale put on the Coventry Carol, and Crowley, as always, retaliated with the nauseating piece of American country known as 'Christmas Shoes', and Aziraphale was supposed to, as always, counter with 'For Unto Us A Child Is Born' but that was from the _Messiah_ which was apparently the taboo subject of the season, because instead the music stuttered briefly before returning to the Coventry Carol, and something inside Crowley snapped.

He waited until Aziraphale, apparently thinking his little deviation had gone unnoticed, was preoccupied with scattering tinsel so old it was actually tarnished along the shelves. He found just the chorus he wanted, switched to it himself, and began to sing along. Badly.

"_Oh, we like sheep_," he warbled, trying for just this side of off-key, "_have gone astray-ay-ay-ay-ay!_"

The effect was immediate; Aziraphale jumped, then swore as he impaled his thumb on some tinsel. "Bugger! Crowley, what on earth are you doing?"

"Singing along," he said with insouciance.

Aziraphale, bless or damn him, looked genuinely shocked. "You—but—you don't—how much cider have you _had_, my dear?"

Crowley scoffed at that. He'd barely touched the cider, and anyway this had nothing to do with that. "This is my favourite chorus," he noted, for once in all honesty. "_We have tuh-uh-uh-uh-urned every one to his own way,_" he continued to sing, as Aziraphale still seemed at a loss. "_Oh, we like sheep!_"

"This one would be your favourite," the angel finally muttered.

"I am not as fond of the end, though," Crowley admitted. "_Oh, we like sheep!_" He was really getting into it. Georg had come up with something quite catchy here.

"I hope you are aware that that is _not_ the libretto. It's 'all we, like sheep', not an ode to bestiality," Aziraphale retorted, colouring slightly on the last word.

"Aw, angel, you take the fun out of everything." Crowley smirked.

"Is it really your favourite?" Aziraphale asked, seriously. "Only, I didn't think that you—"

"Georg Friedrich and I were practically neighbours, you know," Crowley said. "And we've already had the conversation about who ended up with all the best composers. And on top of that, you're usually fairly observant, so how did you miss the fact that half the Queen cassettes in the Bentley are erstwhile Handel?"

"I hadn't missed it. I hadn't missed any of it," Aziraphale said quietly.

"Oh." In the silence that followed, Crowley felt as though he was deflating, as though the weeks and months leading up to this strangely muted confrontation with Aziraphale had been filling him with something, some new and strange sensation, a gradual increase of pressure, nearly imperceptible until released. He didn't like it one bit.

"You aren't going to ask me, are you?" he finally said.

"No, my dear," Aziraphale replied, and his voice was rough with something like kindness and Crowley really needed to be somewhere far away from the angel, immediately. He turned and left the shop without a word, and Aziraphale let him go.

~*~

By the time the angel finally came round the flat to check on him – on Christmas Eve, predictably – Crowley was wishing there had been some way to get, not far away from Aziraphale, but far away from himself. He had his plants and the telly and his Soul Music at the flat, but they were no help in keeping his mind from skittering dangerously along the edges of a revelation he'd really rather not have. He'd had quite enough of Revelations for one existence, thank you very much.

When Crowley decided to open the door and let the angel into his flat, he was ready to say just about any vicious thing he could think of – vicious things were always at the tip of his tongue, after all – to distract Aziraphale, and himself, from the very real issues he feared were at hand and any attempts to resolve them.

He should have taken into account the fact that Aziraphale had always been a creature of habit, but never one of predictability. "I just came by to apologise," he blurted, before Crowley could even offer to take his coat. "I misjudged you, and I very much regret it."

Crowley blinked at the contrite angel currently examining the pattern of the Oriental rug in his foyer. "I suppose you'd better come in, then," he said, finally.

While Aziraphale perched on the very edge of an uncomfortable _chaise_ in his sitting room, Crowley gave in to the urge to pace nervously, then figured, as long as he was giving in to urges, he might as well also watch Aziraphale.

In contrast to Crowley's nerves, Aziraphale seemed not the least discomfited by Crowley's unblinking eyes upon him. "I'm afraid I've made a few assumptions about you lately that were incorrect. It's only natural, after a few thousand years one feels one has come to know a person, and so I may have extrapolated about your motives for never taking me up on my invitation to the _Messiah_, year after year, especially when I _did_ know you are particularly fond of Handel – I'd like to stress again that I did know that, as this whole muddle seems to have arisen due to an excess of attention paid to you by me, not by disregard, er—" Aziraphale faltered, and here was Crowley's chance to break in, say something sarcastic and casually cutting and ensure that they did not have this conversation, not this evening and probably not ever.

"Go on," he found himself saying instead, still watching Aziraphale carefully.

"Well, so I may have drawn some conclusions about why you were avoiding the _Messiah_ in particular, to do with the subject matter, you understand, and I still believe those conclusions were likely fundamentally sound."

Crowley assumed they were, as well, though Aziraphale probably ascribed a lot more importance to what he would think a demon was and wasn't _allowed_ to do than to the far more significant to Crowley factor of what did and didn't fit with his demonic _image_.

"The problem, then, lies in the fact that I foolishly took my speculation a step further and presumed to know how you _felt_ about my yearly invitations. I concluded that they were unwanted, and perhaps even made you uncomfortable, so this year I decided to forgo the whole affair, only I gather from your scene in the bookshop that I could not have been more wrong."

Finally, it seemed, Crowley's self-preservation instincts kicked in. "So this was all because you didn't want to _hurt my feelings_, angel?"

"More or less." Aziraphale had seemed composed from the moment he stepped in the flat; now he seemed tired, resigned. "I should have known you wouldn't want that, though, and I am sorry to have upset our routine, perhaps even disrupted the Arrangement—"

"Why now?" Crowley interjected, wanting a serious talk about breaking the Arrangement even less than he wanted the serious talk they had been having. "You've been asking me to the _Messiah_ for years without being noticeably perturbed by my inevitable rejection. What's so special about this year?"

He hadn't noticed that he had moved until he was standing directly in front of Aziraphale. He didn't know why he wanted to hold his breath. Then Aziraphale said, "This is what's special," stood up, kissed Crowley, and that somehow explained it all in the brief moment that lips brushed lips, not just why Crowley had been drawn to him as much as repelled by the conversation, but also the whole strange cumulation he'd finally acknowledged that day in the bookshop.

"Oh," Crowley said, stupidly, watching the nervous look on Aziraphale's face, the way he licked his lips. "So, for the same reason I wanted you to ask me." And then he couldn't help it, he laughed, probably his first happy laugh in millennia, untinged by maliciousness or irony.

"Precisely, my dear," Aziraphale said, and he was laughing, too, and so now Crowley had to kiss him, and in rather more than a brush of lips kind of way, considering that with all the laughing their mouths were already conveniently open.

Far too soon, though, the angel tried to pull away, and when Crowley followed him, Aziraphale began to tug insistently on his sleeve. "What, angel, what?" he panted, not wanting to stop now that they'd done this, not wanting to let Aziraphale stop.

"I—" Aziraphale's thoughts at the moment were apparently as untidy as his hair. He took a few deep breaths. "I brought tickets to tonight's performance at the Barbican. If we hurry, I think we could still make it, knowing the way you drive."

Crowley carefully closed the angel's hand around the tickets he had produced from a pocket, crumpling them. "Thank you for the invitation," he said carefully, ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his stomach at the expression of gratitude, never mind the fact that he was holding Aziraphale's hand. "But I think you'll find I have a state of the art sound system right here in the flat, and a selection of excellent recordings of the _Messiah_. So I propose we stay in." Crowley couldn't quite refrain from arching an eyebrow seductively, though he did restrain himself from mentioning the sad lack of beds and other comfortable horizontal surfaces at the theatre.

"I've never been satisfied with the acoustics at the Barbican, anyway," was Aziraphale's judicious reply. "And your bed has to be more comfortable than the torture devices they call seats. Er. That is, I—"

And with a becomingly blushing angel thus giving him every evidence that they finally had the same plan for the same reasons, Crowley could think of no better response than to kiss him again, and lead him towards said (extremely comfortable) bed by their still-joined hands.


End file.
